But you know what’s really the worst part about brunch?
It’s the kids. No one is more of an asshole at brunch than a human child. I'm mean -- they're ruining restaurants, right? How many civilized parents bring their ankle-biters to dinner at a nice restaurant on a Saturday night and request a high chair? They don't, because they most likely hired a sitter and are out to dinner like normal people. NOBODY gets a sitter for brunch. They drag their horrible little brats in, who then proceed to wreak havoc on everything in their grasp, leaving food, drool, syrup, ketchup, straws, and Splenda packets littering the place like the day after Mardi Gras. But “don’t worry about it, baby, the nice man will clean it all up for us.”
The downward spiral
As the shift wears on, you find yourself increasingly demoralized and irritable, and the fact that you get to work at 8am and you don’t get your shift meal until 4pm doesn't help. Brunch patrons aren’t the only ones who get hangry. The floor and bar staff horde small bites of food to snack on through the day as though we’re war prisoners in a tiger cage. At the end of the day, you wind up devouring your half-cold pancakes or congealed eggs simply to keep from going on a hunger-induced murder spree. And after that, you close out your receipts, calculate your tips, and head as fast as humanly possible -- which at this point is a slow, painful, off-kilter shuffle -- to the nearest bar.
If I learned anything positive from working brunch, it is this: brunch might turn us all into assholes, but at least there’s a cure. Two shots of rye whiskey and a pint of cold beer. After that, I’d almost feel human again.
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Scott Gold is a correspondent for Thrillist New Orleans. He no longer works brunch. You can follow or vehemently disagree with him on Twitter @scottgold or on Instagram @strangedish.